ALONE WITH A KILLER an absolutely addictive crime thriller with a huge twist (Detective Mike Nash Thriller Book 6)

by BILL KITSON

  ‘Anything else?’

  This time it was Viv who answered. ‘The petrol can is different. It’s not the same size or shape as the others.’

  ‘I agree.’ Nash smiled; listening to his team pooling ideas was something he enjoyed.

  They scrutinized the images once more. ‘The funnel!’ Clara exclaimed triumphantly. ‘All the old photos show a funnel alongside the petrol can. It’s not there in the Vanda Dawson photo. Why is that, do you think?’

  ‘Could be any number of reasons,’ Viv suggested. ‘He might simply have forgotten it. Or it could have been put down outside the camera shot. What puzzles me is why the need for a funnel?’

  ‘You don’t want to know, Viv,’ Nash said quietly.

  Pearce and Mironova stared at him in horror. ‘You don’t mean he pours petrol down their throats when he sets fire to them?’ Viv asked.

  Nash shook his head. ‘Remember, part of the reason for the fire, in fact I’d suggest the main reason for it, is to cover up the evidence of the rape, because that would yield DNA which could trap him. If you check out the description of the bodies in those files’ – Nash pointed to the stack on the corner of the table – ‘you’ll see that the fire damage is worst around the groin area. This isn’t only the most sadistic and perverted killer I’ve ever heard of, he’s as cunning and careful, as he is cruel. He takes no chances whatsoever. That’s part of the reason he’s still at large. If it wasn’t for the photographs he sends to his victims’ relatives, we wouldn’t even know for sure what ordeals he puts those poor women through.’

  Clara heard Viv ask, ‘Is there another reason you think the funnel might be missing, Mike?’

  She replied before Nash had chance. ‘It might be because the photographer wasn’t aware all the previous photos had a funnel in them.’

  It was a few seconds before the significance of her words struck home. ‘You don’t think this is the same attacker? You think this is a copycat?’

  Viv’s question raised another in Clara’s mind. ‘If he’s shown actually raping Vanda Dawson; that must mean someone else was present to take the photo.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Nash pointed to the photo in question. ‘That could have been taken with a delay timer with the camera on a tripod. Alternatively, the photo could have been taken by a third party. Which would mean it isn’t a copycat. It would mean the Cremator has an apprentice. But there are a couple of other differences that tend to suggest Clara’s copycat theory might be the right one.’

  ‘I thought we’d got them all,’ Viv stared at the photos again. ‘Go on, tell us your thoughts.’

  ‘First, the cloth covering what might be called the altar. It’s a different colour to the one used in the other photos.’ Nash pointed to the part of the photograph, ‘Look, the shade is completely different, and the pattern too.’

  ‘The room is different as well.’ Clara was looking at the other photo. ‘In fact this set of photos shows two different rooms. One’s a bedroom, the other a sort of barn. In all the others, it’s the same room in each, but much smaller, more like a cellar.’

  ‘Good point, Clara.’ Nash turned to Pearce. ‘You didn’t see it, but the envelope the Vanda Dawson photos came in was white. All the ones in those files are described as buff. Of course, you could argue the Cremator ran out of buff envelopes and had to switch to white, but somehow I don’t believe that’s the case. For one thing, he’s too organized. Take it together with all the other differences and I think we might be talking about a different perpetrator. The final and most important difference is the evidence we don’t have.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’

  Nash looked at Pearce. ‘If you exclude the first of the Cremator’s victims, all the other women were known to be married. When the killer sent those gruesome photographs, he also included their wedding ring, sawn in two. This fact has never been made public. Only the victims’ partners and the detectives involved in the investigation knew that. Which suggests that Vanda Dawson’s abductor didn’t know either.’

  ‘All of which doesn’t make our job any simpler, even if we’re right,’ Clara pointed out.

  ‘And it doesn’t make the chances of finding Vanda Dawson alive any better,’ Nash added grimly. ‘In fact, I’m afraid there’s little else we can do at the moment, except to keep searching and hope we get lucky, or until we get a phone call from someone to report the finding of a body.’ He reflected for a moment. ‘I’ll have to face Dr Grey and tell her about these’ − he indicated the photos − ‘it’s only fair she should know and be prepared for what might happen.’

  ‘Do you want me to tell her?’ Clara offered. ‘I could pop into her hotel on my way home.’

  ‘I think that would be best,’ Nash said thoughtfully. ‘I spoke to her last night, but at present she doesn’t think much of me.’

  Nash was about to leave, but remembered something. ‘About tomorrow. One of us ought to go back to Mill Cottage first thing. Will you attend to that?’

  Even at night, even in solitary, there is always sound. Always the noise that accompanies human occupation of an enclosed space. There is always movement too, movement and light. Illumination is necessary at all times, to keep an eye on those under guard. This is particularly so for those prisoners regarded as posing a threat to others, or of being in danger themselves.

  Thus, the prisoner’s cell was constantly illuminated. He was a man the authorities felt merited close attention at all times. He was classified as the most dangerous inmate in a prison block filled with dangerous inmates. A man trained to kill, and one who had killed and killed again, whether directly, or by ordering executions carried out by others.

  In this instance, the precautions put in place by those charged with guarding him actually worked in his favour. His cell was lit both day and night. Had he been afraid of the dark, he would have been able to sleep soundly. The fact that he didn’t sleep well had nothing to do with either the light or a guilty conscience. It was due to the ever-present pain from his leg, the one that had been smashed when he was arrested and had never mended properly. The benefit his disturbed sleep patterns gave him, arose from his ability to send and receive text messages on the smuggled mobile phone.

  The text he received contained disturbing information. It read; ‘potential problem with D. Blues are sniffing at his office. Wife disappeared. Have him under 24h ob. Blues turned up at house this am. Advise. T.’

  His reply contained only two words, and was somewhat less than grammatically correct. ‘What cops?’

  It was only minutes later when his screen lit up again. If a prison officer had passed at that moment they would have wondered at the cause of the fury evident in his face as he read the contents. ‘No name. Male, med height & build, fair, 40ish. Plus blonde female, well stacked, nice legs.’

  The prisoner’s breath hissed through his teeth. ‘Nash!’ he whispered. ‘Nash and Mironova.’

  It was several minutes before he trusted himself to reply. Even then, even when he felt calmer, he noticed that his hands were still trembling slightly. He began to type, slowly, carefully, glancing occasionally across the cell at the peephole in the door. ‘Cop is Nash. V. Dangerous. His sidekick, Mironova. Also dangerous. Eliminate Nash if chance. If D poses a threat, take him out.’

  He paused for a few seconds, considering the words, before adding, ‘Deal with Mironova too.’

  The recipient stared at the last text message. It was about what he’d expected. He picked up the phone. Although it was the early hours of the morning, he knew his team would be hard at work. ‘Jerry, it’s Tony. We need a meeting. I’ve had instructions.’

  ‘When do you suggest?’

  ‘As soon as possible. The situation is urgent, could become critical. Tomorrow is half-day closing; that would be ideal. Say three o’clock at my place?’

  ‘I’ll get on to it.’

  Henrietta’s Costumes was in the centre of a terrace on the west of Helmsdale market place. The shop sold
a wide range of chain store and mail order goods, mainly end of line items and some seconds. Offering these at a fraction of the original ticket price had established a niche market, attracting the thrifty, budget-conscious local residents and tourists alike.

  The owner, whose name was Julie, not Henrietta, was always first to arrive in the morning, although her two assistants were never far behind. She parked in the small courtyard to the rear of the shop and lifted her briefcase from the car. It was heavy, carrying the floats she made up daily for the two tills. Julie was concentrating on the mental list of jobs she had to complete or delegate prior to her departure the following Monday on her buying trip for the shop’s autumn collection.

  Her attention was so distracted that she reached the back door and was fumbling with the shop keys before she noticed that all was not as it should be. The door had been forced, and none too professionally by the look of it. A long strip of bare splintered wood contrasted starkly with the dark green paint. ‘Oh Shit!’ Julie breathed, language her customers would have been shocked to hear from her. She paused for a moment, listening intently, whilst trying to block out the sound of traffic on the road behind her.

  The small room directly inside the back door was used purely for the storage of low value items necessary for the smooth running of the shop. Items such as mobile hanging rails, clothes hangers, display dummies and carrier bags in varying sizes, along with advertising signage. All were necessary, but of little intrinsic worth to anyone but those employed in the business.

  As such, the room was the only part of the premises not covered by the alarm system. Thieves might not necessarily be aware of the fact. After several minutes without hearing the strident tones of the alarm, Julie relaxed slightly. What had happened looked like an inconvenience rather than a disaster. Her stock level fluctuated, and could be worth anything from thirty to fifty-thousand pounds dependent on the time of year.

  The loss of stock would have reclassified the incident as a disaster, with the inevitable knock-on effect on her insurance premiums. Margins in the business were tight enough, without having to cope with avoidable increases in overheads. Nevertheless, dealing with this was an unwelcome addition to the list of jobs she had been compiling. Instead of opening the door, Julie took out her mobile and dialled 999, something she had never done before.

  DC Pearce wasn’t particularly happy. This was an unusual state of affairs, for Viv was usually easy-going and relaxed about life. His dissatisfaction was partly because he felt he had been marginalized in the current enquiries. He wasn’t sure why, or whom to blame, which made his sense of injustice difficult to cope with. Lacking the opportunity to clear the air, his grievance festered.

  This morning had seemed like the last straw. With the probability of a sadistic serial killer on the loose, he had been handed the task of investigating a break-in at a clothes shop where the informant had already indicated that nothing of value had been taken. The trivial nature of the crime stoked the fire of dissatisfaction within him; he wondered why a uniformed officer had not been detailed to attend. He turned and walked out of the CID suite without a word to Nash. Mironova was on her way into the suite, having been to Mill Cottage to intercept the post. As Pearce brushed past her, Clara’s cheerful greeting got no response.

  She looked across at Nash, who was watching the DC stride briskly down the corridor, his gait reflecting the anger within him. ‘What’s Viv seen his arse about?’ she asked.

  Nash shook his head. ‘I think he regards the job I’ve just given him as beneath his dignity. I’ll have a word with him later and explain that we don’t investigate the crimes we want to, we investigate those we have to.’

  ‘Viv knows that well enough, Mike.’ Clara grinned. ‘He should do because you’re always banging on about it. It could be that all isn’t running smoothly on the domestic front.’

  ‘Domestic front? What domestic front?’

  ‘Mike, you’re supposed to be a detective. Didn’t you know? Viv’s got a girlfriend. She’s a nurse at Netherdale hospital. Her name’s Lianne. Maybe they’ve had a lover’s tiff.’

  ‘I didn’t know any of that. I was right, you are turning into a gossip columnist.’

  Clara raised her eyebrows and laughed. ‘Well you’re no use to me on the gossip front these days. I have to get my fun elsewhere. Anyway, I’ve just come from Mill Cottage. There was nothing but junk mail for Dawson today. He was as charming and warm-hearted as yesterday. He seems to think we’re panicking over nothing, can’t understand what all the fuss is about. What’s our plan for the rest of this morning?’

  ‘I want to go over those files yet again. Also, I’d like you to get in touch with forensics. They should have analysed those photos by now. Get on to them first, whilst I make coffee. Oh, and whilst you’re talking to them, ask them if they’ve got any news about the blood on the road near the hijack. I don’t think we’ll find it to be human, given the security men’s statements, but best to be sure.’

  Nash returned with two mugs and sat down at his desk. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘You were right, the blood wasn’t human. They’re still looking at the photos and we should have the report tomorrow.’

  ‘OK, then. Let’s start on these files again.’

  They had been reading for over an hour, occasionally one of them would comment on the contents of a statement or other information, when Clara sat bolt upright. ‘Mike, I’ve got it. It has to be a copycat.’

  ‘Why, what have you found?’

  ‘There was no note.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘With the photos. I was looking over your shoulder. Not only was there no wedding ring, but there wasn’t a note. It says it here’ − she pointed to the page − ‘read that.’

  Nash took the file from her and read aloud, ‘“What others created, I cremated.” I’ll check all the files, see if there was a note in every case. You phone forensics, maybe it’s caught in the envelope.’

  A few minutes later, Clara put the phone down. ‘It wasn’t.’

  Pearce’s mood wasn’t helped by the news imparted by the shop owner. ‘A dummy?’ He stared at her in amazement. ‘You’ve dialled 999 to report the theft of a tailor’s dummy?’

  ‘I told you, it’s a mannequin. A tailor’s dummy is quite different.’

  Pearce sighed. ‘Would you care to explain the difference? So I can circulate a description.’

  The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Julie. She decided to ignore it. ‘A tailor’s dummy consists only of the torso, mounted on a pedestal. It can be used for displaying blouses or jumpers, but can also be handy to drape material over when the tailor has to apply tacking stitches. Whereas, a mannequin is the sort of model you see in shop windows, a full-length replica of the human frame. Is that clear enough? Or would you like me to ask my staff if they can remember the mannequin’s eye colouring or bust measurement?’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. Now, are you certain that was the only item stolen? If so, why would anyone risk breaking into the shop simply to steal a dummy, sorry, a mannequin?’

  Julie looked at him witheringly. Under different circumstances, she might have found his dark good looks attractive. His attitude rather spoilt that. ‘I’m sorry,’ she retorted, sarcasm crackling in her voice. ‘I thought you were supposed to be the detective. I didn’t realize I had to solve the crime myself. As to why I called you, I’m beginning to wonder why I bothered. You see, my insurers are incredibly picky. And if I decide to put in a claim for the damage done as well as the loss of the mannequin, they will insist that I have a police incident number to go along with the claim.’

  Pearce realized he had allowed his personal feelings to get the better of him. ‘I apologize, I didn’t mean it to sound as if I wasn’t interested. It’s just that I find it hard to understand why someone should go to all that trouble simply to steal something of so little value, and of such limited use.’

  He smiled, which Julie thought made him seem sudden
ly far more attractive. ‘Perhaps I should go round your competitors and question them.’

  ‘That’ll take about five minutes in a town the size of Helmsdale,’ Julie pointed out. ‘I’ve a better idea. It’s about the time I make a cuppa for the workers. If you like, I can make you one while you take down a statement or whatever it is you do.’

  ‘That’s very kind, especially as I wasn’t very helpful earlier.’

  Julie smiled at him. ‘You’re forgiven. Come upstairs into the stockroom. It doubles as the staffroom and my office. You’ll be more comfortable there and you’ll have a desk to write on.’

  Tony cleared his throat. ‘Sorry to drag you all away from your gainful labours. I’m sure you’d all prefer to be counting takings and arranging your shop windows. We have a potential emergency. Our operation might be in danger of being leaked.’

  Tony held up his hand to quell any protest. ‘I’m not referring to anyone in this room. I know you all far too well for that.’ Tony glanced round the small group. All men he could trust with his own life. Had already done so in fact, more than once. ‘Dawson’s the problem. He was an asset, now he’s a liability. What’s more he’s a dangerous liability. He knows everything about us. He knows what we’ve already done, what we’re planning to do and how we dispose of our proceeds. Worst of all he knows who we are.

  ‘Dawson’s become the focus of police attention, allegedly in connection with his wife’s disappearance. I’m not sure if anything’s happened to her or whether she’s simply buggered off with another bloke. Apart from that, even if there is something sinister behind her vanishing act I don’t know whether Dawson’s involved. All that’s immaterial. What is critical as far as we’re concerned is that if the police put pressure on Dawson he may talk. And if that happens, I wouldn’t bet against him spilling the lot about our operations.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put anything past him,’ Nick intervened. ‘He’s a cold, shifty bastard who makes my skin crawl. I’d guess he’s definitely behind whatever’s happened to his wife.’